Page 4 of Library of Forbidden Books

“What an utterly despicable clown,” von Blomberg burst out.

Derek, his pale face now red, knew to keep his mouth shut while the man vented.

At the car, the general directed the driver to the Hotel Kaiserhof, where Hitler and his trusted men lodged. The Austrian-born leader detested Berlin, a little bourgeois city full of despicable Jews and horrid architecture. The hotel was the only place in the decadent capital he tolerated.

Beyond the entryway, two SS officers watched the movements of all who entered and exited the enormous hall. They snapped to attention when they spotted the uniforms of Derek and his boss, who were standing in a room in Hitler’s suite a few minutes later.

Derek had never seen the National Socialist candidate in person. He was simultaneously nervous and intrigued but, when the famous orator walked in, he was ultimately unimpressed.

Hitler was shorter than Derek: five feet nine inches, at best. His straight black hair was combed to the side, and the only features that stood out in his commoner’s face were his bright blue eyes and the look of a distrusting merchant. As he stood at attention, Derek knew Helene would not believe what he had to tell her.

The general saluted Hitler with his arm raised, and Derek followed suit, though the movement was not completely fluid. Hitler was carrying a riding whip in his hand and tapping it gently against his thigh.

“My dear general, how good to see you!” the Nazi leader exclaimed with a smile. Then he sat, and von Blomberg followed his example.

Tea was served, and the room smelled of Danish pastries and red roses.

Derek was taken aback by Hitler’s nearly servile cordiality. Before speaking, the Nazi leader cast a curious glance at Derek and then looked back at von Blomberg.

“He has my complete trust,” von Blomberg said gravely, then gestured for Derek to stand at ease.

“Very well.” Hitler gave a single nod. “Have you spoken with the chancellor?”

“Yes. He’s willing to make you vice-chancellor in a new government presided over by von Papen.”

“What a waste of time! We haven’t gotten this far just to be the vice-anything. Power is not what I’m after, General—I’m here to change Germany. So we’ll call for new elections!” he exclaimed. He slurped his tea, then gnawed at a pastry, slouching back in the comfortable chair.

“The communists and Social Democrats are gaining ground. If they win the next elections, we’re bound to become a damned Soviet country!” von Blomberg spouted out.

His outburst did not sit well with Hitler, who frowned and leaned forward. “We can keep that from happening, but I’ve got to have the ministry to the interior, foreign affairs, and justice. Anything less would mean selling the German people, and I’m not willing to do that. Understood?” The question came with Hitler’s piercing wolf gaze, which few could meet for even a second.

“But that’s impossible! You don’t have more than thirty-three percent of the votes. You’ve lost seats. They simply won’t accept it. I’m with you, but I’m a realist.”

Hitler crossed his arms over his chest like a child whose toy had been taken away. “Well, happy holidays,” he pouted. Then he stood and quickly exited the room with a curved back, as if his shoulders bore a heavy weight.

Von Blomberg looked at Derek, stood, and let out a long sigh.

They left the hotel, and Derek checked his watch as they made their way through the chilly streets of Berlin. Within an hour he would be with Helene. That was all that really mattered to him. The last time he had seen her had been at breakfast in her apartment the month before. They had barely even been able to talk on the phone since. He was counting the seconds.

Chapter 3

Peaceful Places

Berlin

December 3, 1932

Helene was trying to erase the graffiti painted on the library’s street-facing side. Soap dripped under her coat sleeve and down her arm, all the way to her armpit. She shivered. This was the ninth—tenth?—time in the past six weeks that the Nazis had left their mark, and the police simply turned a blind eye, since many policemen were also in the SA or had joined the Nazi Party. The most recent incident had been worse than the current graffiti. Several masked SA members had thrown rocks at one of the windows, followed by burning torches once the glass broke. They chose a time of day when a dozen children were in the library’s playroom. Helene’s assistant Klaus had managed to get the children out in time while the rest of the employees put out the flames. The damage could have been disastrous, but her police report had been merely filed away at the commissary. The Nazis could do what they liked without fear of reprisal.

In poorly drawn (and poorly spelled, Helene noted) red letters, the graffiti spelled out, Comunnast Jewshish piggs. Helene was doing her best to erase each letter one by one when a cough from behind alerted her to a man’s presence. The strong odor of paint thinner had her somewhat dizzy, so when she turned around, it took her a moment to recognize the man dressed in a worn gray suit and dark brown hat.

“Miss Nathan, I see that the Brownshirts have been at it again. If you would put the library under our protection, we would ensure the safety of this building and the participation of all members of the Communist Youth in your literacy campaigns.”

“Mr. Fuchs, my position remains unaltered since our previous conversations. Libraries are neutral places, and ideologies should stay outside their doors. Within the shelves of our common home, Freud, Nietzsche, St. Augustine, and Ernst Wiechert dwell together in peace.” Helene smiled at a fleeting vision of the authors seated together in rapt debate, as in Raphael’s famous fresco, The School of Athens.

“That’s where you’re wrong. Our times don’t allow us the luxury of neutrality. Sooner or later one sector of Germany will dominate the other. Which one do you want?” the toothless old man insisted. His eyes were like the black buttons of a gravedigger’s suit.

“I don’t want either Thälmann or Hitler. Friends who live abroad have told me what’s going on in Russia under Stalin and about the repression in Italy under Benito Mussolini. They’re cut from the same cloth. I’m with Tolstoy: Governments can’t make people better, but they certainly can make them worse.”